The Man whol Paid

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 326, 11 April 1928, Page 5

The Man whol Paid

\&y

Pierre Castello

Author of " A Sinner in Israel," •• Tainted Lives," *' The Money Master," Etc., Etc

CHAPTER XXX.—THE DAY OF MlßACLES.—Continued. And a great longing came over her for their little cottage, and with tile longing came the shamed realisation that it was months and months since she had been i here, although it belonged to her. It was a very long time since she had even thought of her father in the stress and turmoil of her emotional life. Yet she lmew that, If it were possible to him, he would be watching over her, suffering with her, trying to point out to her the path of peace and happiness. Her father would never fail her. He had never failed her In life. He would never fail her through the ages, if only there was some golden stairway that could lead her up to where he was.

She went down to the workmen’s huts after breakfast, and told the woman she was going over the hills to visit her cottage. “Don’t worry if I don’t come back to-night,” she said. “It is a good long way. I shan’t get there under four hours, and there is everything there for my use, so that if I am ■ tired. I shall stay the night. I can get bread and milk from the neighbours in the valley. 1 shall be back to-morrow, and the next day I am going back to Liverpool to sail on i the 16th and join my husband in Tenerife.” * * * It was a long but an easy walk. She did not have to cross any of the higher mountain passes. She stopped for some bread and milk at a little farm about 300 feet below the cottage. The woman was delighted to see her, and ! scolded her for not coming before. ! “See, we’d begun to forget what your face was like,” she said affectionately. “And so this is the birthday of your grand old father. It will be long before we see the like of him again. And I’ve kept the cottage clean for you, as if you might be coming any day, and opened ail the window's once a week in fine weather. I ; is sininly absurd to be ill When knowing the way to be well, To linger in suffering still. Despite of what other folks tell. ; ’Tis simply absurd and perverse A cough or bad cold to endure; And foolishly wait to grow worse Without Woods’ Great Peppermint Cure. 5

But you look poor and puny about the face, Miss Grace. That I must say. And we hear you’ve married a man with enough money to buy up all Wales. Ah, what does he do with his money, then, if he can’t keep the roses in your cheeks with it?”

Grace took her leave, smiling and declaring that she was quite well, only a little weak after her accident in the mountains.

It was after three o’clock in the afternoon when she reached the cottage, perched high up on the bare hillside. There were sheep nibbling the grass, as she entered the little gate and walked up between the yews.

A great sadness fell upon her. She opened the door with the key, and w-alked in. She entered the lowbeamed living-room and realised that her youth was gone. Indeed, she had had no youth—except perhaps a few of those bright, dangerous hours spent with Shean Glyn. She had come here to keep her father’s birthday in silent recollection. Her heart smote her because she had so nearly forgotten him. But what was left to her now but the memory of her childhood and girlhood, and his tenderness and unfailing sympathy and care? She roamed about the house. She had not been back once since her marriage. She remembered how her whole being had thrilled with passionate gratitude when Rivett had bought it and given it to her. It was to be a shrine —a sacred place of memory. And she had never entered it once. She was unworthy of her father, as she was unworthy of her husband. Toward evening the weather changed. There had been a fine spell, but now' the clouds w r ere coming up and it began to rain. Grace was lighting a fire in the sitting-room when Mrs. Applin from the farm below came up with milk and bread and a little tea and butter and some eggs. Sugar and other such stores were in the house. “I shall stay the night,” Grace said to her. “I believe there’s going to be a storm.” Mrs. Applin fussed abcrtlt the bedroom. She w'as obviously curious

and longing for a gossip, but Grace was too weary in spirit, even if she could have brought herself to talk to the good woman about her married life.

The storm came on. There was neither thunder nor lightning; only a great wind and sheets of rain. It grew very dark. About six Grace had to light the lamps. She found them ready filled.

She went into her father's little study and looked at the rows of his beloved books. Here, she felt, was peace. And suddenly she caught sight of her face in a small mirror, the white, anxious face of a culprit awaiting judgment. And she laughed aloud in sudden bitterness. To think that all she wanted was peace—and she was only twenty-six! There was a loud knock at the door. She went and opened it. thinking Mrs. Applin had come up again. A man stood in the porch. The rain was streaming off his mackintosh. “Grace!” he said. She gave a great cry, as Rivett reached out and took her hands. She was dazed. She thought she was dreaming, or that he was a ghost. “You-” she breathed. “You!” “Grace,” he said again; and there was something in his voice that seemed to take all the strength out of her. He half-lifted her out of the storm into the living-room. She fell on her knees before him. “Norman, you can never forgive me —never! I have heard the truth. I know that I was shamefully wrong. You took the blame that was not yours. You did not kill her—your wife. She killed herself.” “Who told you that?” he asked. His voice was stern. “Paul Dacre —he’s dying. Edwin Stroud told him before he died. I, who was brought up in faith—l had no faith. I believed such a thing of you—l —your wife.” He lifted her to her feet. “This is a miracle,” he said. “I

have been travelling all day aud nigiii" to find you.” “You did not sail for Africa?” “No. I met a man in the hotel at Liverpool the night before. He was a stranger to me, though I knew of him by reputation. Grace, he told m* the whole story of Frank Moody’s fall and of his death. And I believed that you had driven him to it. Child. Frank Moody, as this man showed 1 in to me, was a scoundrel, a degenerate, not fit to touch your hand. Aud 1 believed that of you! You can never forgive me—never!” His words came to her as fron’ great distance. It seeme-l too strungto be true. “Grace, I see it all know. ’ he v , r on. “You would not speak becum he was dead, because 1 had < :ld > a l loved him. You would not black n him in my sight. Ho you took Ci blame.” It was so strange, so unexpected, . • miraculous, that she laughed like a child who has seen the fairies. “You were looking for me!” she said “I went down to Milton Bay and then back to Liverpool, and then to Sulpice, and I heard you had cornu here.” “Norman,” she said, “there’s a st< in —just as there was on the day you first came.” “Yes,” he said. He .ame toward her. He had taken off biu wet thing-. His arms were outstre „Vul“Grace! ” She swayed toward him. He held her close. “You did not lose faith.” h*» wbi a. pered. “You kept it. You shield < Jk the derd.” “I ought to have known.” “You could not have known.” Still, she was like a child in her wonderment. “Norman, there is nothing between us nowr?” “Nothing—nothing.” They sat close together, IdL arms | around her. They talked in low | voices. \n hour passed. “Norma*,” she said, “d'jar Sbcau j Giya, he said to me once, that if it would make me happy, l'je would be glad to die. Do you thi *k he knows ! —he knows that he di a<i in a wav for us? If he had nv been killed it would have been yo /*.” ! “I think he knows- —I am sure he | knows,” Rivett said. : “Norman!” her vcm : e faltered on a note of happiness inexpressible. “May i I come with you ti* Africa?” j “Yes, beloved. We will go to- ! gether. In great wild places j we will forget al!» f.hat has been. Grace, : do you love me ?" j “I love you more—more than I can ; ever say. “And do yem forgive me?” “I have nothing to forgive. You have forgiv ern me.” -• • • Present 'jy lie rose and drew* her to the window. “Look/’ he said. The rain was over. The window ! looked to the west. The mountains were fetched yellow and black wit it light y.nd shadow, and. over a towering range of storm clouds, the sun was, bursting forth in splendour. the. END.